Free Dog Gone by Cynthia Chapman Willis

tangled in too many strings.
    â€œImagine if Lyon got caught keeping a sheep-killing dog,” G.D. says. “Imagine him facing jail with everything else he’s got weighing him down these days.” G.D. shakes his head. “All his years of struggling to earn the farmers’ trust would be lost forever. That new store would get all his business.”
    This about knocks the breath out of me. Why hadn’t I thought about Lyon’s hard work, his store, the huge new competitor that has been threatening to steal his customers?
    Cub nudges my arm. “Where’d you say you heard about this other sheep-killin’ dog?”
    I give him a sharp look that says Shut your mouth!
    G.D. clears his throat. “Well, that information makes me happier than a mountain lion at a pig roast, but that dog of ours still isn’t home, which makes me wonder if he’s gone back to his wandering ways.”
    â€œHe hasn’t,” I insist. “Dead End is a good dog. He’ll be back.”
    G.D. pushes away from the table, shaking his head, somehow older, more frail. “Hope you’re right, girl, but I’ve got doubts. Serious doubts.” He stands.
    â€œWhere are you going? What about dinner?” I sound desperate, afraid. You have to eat to keep up your strength, I don’t add.
    â€œNot hungry,” he mutters as his cane taps across the kitchen floor, to the family room.
    The second the back door slaps closed behind G.D., Cub squints at me. “There’s no other yellow dog, is there?”
    I shrug, go to the window.
    â€œJeez, Dill, you lied again.” Cub’s voice cracks. “A big, fat lie to your granddad.”
    â€œDon’t go diving headfirst into one of your dad’s sermons.”
    Cub shakes his head. “My dad says the first lie is the hardest. Then the rest come easy.” He sighs. “Dill, if Dead End is a sheep killer and the farmers find out that your dad has been keepin’ him, ten million lies won’t put a stop to Lyon losin’ his customers.”
    â€œEverything will be great,” is all I can say.
    Cub shakes his head. “I don’t know, Dill. I got a feeling we’re goin’ to be real sorry.”

CHAPTER 6
    A KILLER
    â€œI still can’t believe you lied to G.D., Dill.” Cub’s eyebrows mash together. His mouth twists down in a disapproving look.
    I kick a stone, and watch it hop over the dirt road potholes before it pops up and into a field of tall grasses and wild daisies. Maybe starting the day by looking for Dead End out here, where Mom used to take him for long walks off his leash, wasn’t such a great idea after all, especially since Cub has, apparently, decided to become my conscience. “Sheriff Hawks wanting everyone to register and photograph their dogs is a bigger problem than some stupid lie,” I mutter.
    â€œDon’t know about that.”
    â€œWe can’t register Dead End,” I tell Cub flat out. “If we do, he’ll be accused of being one of those sheep killers just because he fits the description of whichever dog did go after that sheep.”
    â€œDill, there aren’t a lot of yellow, husky dogs around here. And most folks recognize your dog.”
    â€œWe could dye him.” The idea drops from my mouth. Whenever Mom felt playful, she’d dye her hair some new color. Sometimes, I’d help. “There’s a leftover box of Saturday Night Red in the linen closet.” Because coloring stopped being fun when her hair thinned—thanks to the chemicals the doctors put into her.
    Cub stops midstep and stares at me without blinking. “You gonna give the dog a perm, too?”
    I roll my eyes at him, not mentioning the perms that make his mother poodlelike.
    â€œKeep comin’ up with those kinds of ideas, Dill, and your dog won’t stick around long if he does come home.”
    I’m about to give Cub lip for